Rise of the Mages (Rise of the Mages 2) (5 page)

Brant swung the sword.

The blade hit the practice dummy with a
thwack
, passing through layers of straw to strike the wood frame below. Brant’s arm vibrated. The sword, cheaply made to begin with and bent by years of use, warped.

He struck again. And again.

A full day had passed since Xan’s arrest.

He continued swinging. Sweat rolled down his face. His clothes grew damp. The wood cracked. He hit it again. The dummy’s torso splintered, its upper half falling.

Brant threw the sword, and it clanged angrily against the ground. He needed more of a challenge. Something that hit back.

In one of three rings in the center of the militia’s training barn, Wilfred and one of the newer recruits—Robb?—sparred in padded armor. Brant stormed to his cubby to grab a waster. Not bothering to put on protective gear, he raced into the ring.

“Face me,” Brant said.

The two raised their practice swords in salute.

“Begin.”

Wilfred rushed him. Brant sidestepped a thrust and dealt a hard blow to the back of Wilfred’s leg, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Keep control of yourself!” Brant spun to parry a lunge from Robb.

The force of the counter drove his enemy off balance. Robb, too, ended up eating dust.

Brant watched them from a ready stance. “You disgust me. Up! Now!”

The two men rose slowly, groaning. They took their positions and saluted once again. Instead of rushing Brant, they moved to opposite sides of him.

“Good. Work together.”

Wilfred gave Robb a nod, and they both advanced. Brant grinned. He darted at Wilfred and feinted a thrust that froze his enemy.

Brant put his weight behind a swing. His wood blade hit with a loud thud. Though the blow struck thick padding, Wilfred fell and clutched at his side.

Twirling the tip of his waster, Brant turned and dashed at Robb. The recruit retreated until becoming trapped against the ring. Brant feinted low, and Robb moved to block. Spinning, Brant swung his weapon fast and hard at his opponent’s helmet.

“That’s enough!”

The blade halted inches from its target.

“Get cleaned up and find Dylan,” Captain Reed said. “Master Rae wants to speak with the two of you.”

Brant faced his dad. “I’d be better off at the cells.”

The captain’s face clouded. “I’ve heard enough of that.”

Arguing would get Brant nothing beyond added chores, so he dropped it. But it wasn’t fair. How could everybody let that catcher arrest Xan?

As he oiled, cleaned, and stowed his gear, he couldn’t get rid of the image of a deserter he’d seen hanged. The fear on the boy’s face before. Lifeless eyes after.

Xan couldn’t end up swinging from a rope. Brant had to do something. Fight the guardsmen. Challenge the catcher to a duel. Anything.

Instead, he was stuck running a fool errand to see a crazy old man. There was no help for it, though. After sponging the sweat from his body, he changed out of his sparring clothes and began the long walk to find Dylan.

Much of Eagleton consisted of sturdy stone buildings that weren’t too fancy or colorful. Not so for Merchant Street. The homes, shops, and offices lining the way assaulted the eyes. Each trade house stood as a fortress with stone walls, iron gates, and liveried guards.

The prize for the showiest easily went to the spice merchant. A sparkling gold-tile roof topped bright purple plaster framed with emerald green wood trim. Ten-foot marble statues of the Eagle and his lieutenants guarded each corner of the building in an over-the-top display of wealth.

The trade house of Dylan’s father, the dye merchant, looked simple in comparison. Half the size of the buildings on either side, its pale blue plaster, white trim, and shingled roof stood as an island of class in a sea of ugliness.

Brant strode through the gate with a curt nod to the guard and marched inside without knocking. He breezed through an inner door to find Dylan seated at a desk piled high with paper and ledgers.

“Master Rae sent for us,” Brant said.

Dylan nodded. “Just let me tell Father.”

Before he had taken more than a step toward the storeroom in back, Master d’Adreci called, “Go on. It’s not like you’re getting anything done anyway.”

Brant turned and left, setting a rapid pace. Neither of them spoke the entire way to the apothecary’s house.

Master Rae led them to seats at the kitchen table. “It’s a terrible thing about that apprentice of mine. No help for it but that he’s going to be executed, and after I put so much work into training him.” He eyed each of them. “Neither of you are looking to learn to be an apothecary are you?”

What the rads? He’d summoned them for recruitment? Brant clenched the hilt of his sword.

“No? Pity. I have a new mixture I need tested.” Master Rae laid a wood tube and ten items that looked like fishing flies on the table. “This is a blowgun, popular with the tribes. They treat the tips of these darts with poison.”

Brant had never seen the like. It wouldn’t help much in battle, but if it was as quiet as it looked …

Master Rae stuffed a dart into the end of the tube. “Simply blow in one end.” He lifted the tube to his mouth and puffed his cheeks. The dart flew across the room and quivered where it stuck out of a wood cabinet.

The apothecary turned to Brant. “If it breaks the skin, it kills the target. It’s silent and deadly, but it has faults. It’s only accurate to about fifty feet, and the darts won’t penetrate armor. Sometimes even a heavy cloak stops it. But if a man, say someone standing guard” —he winked— “didn’t expect an attack, it could take him out quickly and quietly.”

“But—” Brant said.

“Of course, poison causes such a mess, perhaps creating more problems than it solves. Dead bodies lying around and bloating.” Master Rae wrinkled his nose before taking a small glass bottle filled with a goopy yellow liquid from a shelf. “This is my creation. It will put a man to sleep for about a day. Drop him right fast, too. I think anyway. If only I could find someone to test it for me.”

Brant opened his mouth, but Dylan interrupted. “I have experience with a blowgun from my dealings with the tribes. We can help you.”

Master Rae pulled a leather saddlebag from underneath the table, his frail arms straining. “I’d also appreciate it if you store this for me. Mind you don’t open it, though. Only a real apprentice apothecary should see what’s inside.”

Dylan took the bag and nodded.

“I’m glad we were able to come to an understanding,” the apothecary said. “You are authorized to purchase anything you need at the market and put it on my account. Captain Reed granted permission to draw horses from the militia’s stable as well. If there’s anything else, the mayor will help.”

Brant finally got to speak. “When?”

“Soon,” the apothecary said. “Tonight.”

Dylan’s tunic itched.

Why couldn’t he wear his own clothes instead of old, ratty ones? More to the point, why did he just go along with Brant’s planning for everything?

If they got caught, all the wealth and influence of Dylan’s family would do nothing for him. His hard work and long hours in the office and on the road would go for naught.

Through the tunic’s rough tweed, he grasped his medallion. Something about having the first copper he’d ever earned hanging from his neck comforted him, especially since it was mounted in gold. After all, if things ever got really bad, that setting alone was worth enough to get him out of a jam.

Focus on the gain, not the risk. But was the gain of Xan’s life worth the risk?

Dylan shook off the question. Of course it was.

The moon’s gibbous phase provided ample light. Too much light. One guardsman sat inside the building beside a glassless window opening, and another stood out of Dylan’s sight around the front corner by the door. How would Brant reach several yards in front of the jail without being seen by either? If an alarm were raised, there’d be no rescue. They’d be lucky to get away alive, and Xan would be hanged.

Dylan tensed as Brant started his move.

Somehow, he managed to slide from shadow to shadow noiselessly and with deadly grace until reaching his hiding spot behind a wide oak. He froze, caught Dylan’s eyes, and glared.

Why was Brant upset? He’d gotten into position without being noticed. Dylan shrugged, and Brant stared pointedly at Dylan’s chest.

He looked down. His fingers tapped the medallion, the metallic clicking audible over the sounds of the night.

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

They waited, motionless.

As silence stretched, a gust slammed Dylan’s face. Treetop canopies jerked and swirled causing the moonlight to dance across the ground and rustling leaves to forge a cacophony. Several blocks away, a dog barked, and Dylan held his breath against one of the sentries investigating.

The guardsman inside didn’t stir, and after a minute, it became apparent that the one in front wasn’t going to either.

Dylan gritted his teeth. All he had to do was knock out a pair of sentries without drawing any attention from the rest of the guardsmen who slept in a bunkhouse not a hundred yards away. Ridiculous.

He gripped the medallion again. Maybe he should give the abort sign. Say the interior guardsman had spotted movement and gotten suspicious. Brant couldn’t see inside and wouldn’t question it.

Dylan rubbed his temples. It’d suck when Xan was executed but better than sharing his fate.

A branch shook. Crap. Brant’s signal. No more chance to back out.

Dylan readied his blowgun. His hand shook, so he steadied the weapon against the tree. How was Brant always so sure about his decisions?

Nothing happened. A long minute passed. Still nothing. He shook the branch again.

The sentry from the front popped into view from around the building.

Dylan had one chance to hit him—a single shot for his life and Xan’s life. A miss by mere inches could alert him to their presence. A shout would mean failure.

He pointed the tube. The sentry continued slowly forward, cautious but not alarmed. White skin appeared between his helmet and leather armor.

Dylan aimed and puffed his cheeks. He considered the angle, the distance, the incredibly small sliver of bare flesh. Too much risk. Too little gain.

He hesitated as the man continued toward the oak. Behind the tree, Brant would be silently screaming for Dylan to take the shot. One chance.

The tip of the blowgun tracked the guard. A few more feet and he would be able to see Brant. Dylan closed his eyes for an instant. He blew.

The dart sailed straight and impaled the sentry’s neck. His hand sprung to the wound, and he collapsed to his knees. Brant rushed from his hiding spot and caught the body before it crashed to the leaf-covered ground.

The other guardsman stuck his head out the opening. “Zack?”

Dylan didn’t have much time. The guardsman surely couldn’t see Brant given the angle between them, but the man’s suspicions were raised. If he peeked out the door, it would be the end of the rescue mission.

“Zack! Report.”

Dylan’s hand shook as he fumbled for the next dart. Brant, disguising his voice, mumbled a curse.

The guardsman chuckled. “Don’t tell me you tripped. Clumsy oaf.”

The dart slid into place, and Dylan lined up the end of the tube. The man’s eyes narrowed when no immediate response came to his call. Now or never.

Dylan puffed. The dart sailed toward the opening. It grazed the side of the guardsman’s face.

He slapped at the spot as if striking at an insect, and Dylan’s breath caught. The man drew away his fingers and held his palm up. A thin red line traced his chin.

A single shout would end them.

The guardsman’s eyes rolled back. He swooned forward and hit the wall with a thud before sliding down to the floor.

Dylan let out a relieved sigh before rushing to join Brant. They dragged Zack to the front of the jail, and Dylan pocketed the spent dart before they burst inside.

Xan stared at them with wide eyes. He panned his gaze to the slumped figure in the foyer. “Is he dead?”

As Brant pulled a ring of keys from the guard’s belt, he explained about the blowgun.

“You have no idea how good it is to see the both of you,” Xan said.

Brant unlocked the cell. “You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

“That’s your move.” Xan grinned as he stepped out. “Remember when your dad caught you sneaking into the girls’ barracks?”

“I was nine! Give me a break.”

Dylan shook his head as he gathered the other spent dart from the floor. He was pretty sure that, while Xan’s joking covered nervousness, Brant was genuinely relaxed. How could anyone remain calm in such a situation?

“What now?” Xan whispered as they all exited.

“Talk softly.” Brant crept toward the rear of the building and motioned for Xan to follow. “Whispers carry farther than a low voice. And keep your movements natural. Trying to be stealthy draws the eye.”

The two passed out of sight around the back. Dylan fastened a rope around Zack’s chest and under his arms. Brant and Xan reappeared a few minutes later carrying a wood stand about a man’s height with a stout base and a hook.

The three lifted Zack high enough for the rope to catch on the hook.

“It’ll work from a distance,” Xan said. “I assume you have horses.”

“They’re at the stable,” Brant said.

“Why didn’t you bring them here?”

“Do you want to get on with the escape or keep talking endlessly?”

Xan grinned again. “That’s a stupid question, the answer is obviously …”

“Talk endlessly,” they said together.

Brant led them toward the guardsmen’s bunkhouse but on the opposite side of the street. “I grant horses would be faster, but they draw notice. And it’ll be easier to throw anyone off our trail by leaving from the stable.” He smiled. “Dad had the militia riding all day—in and out of the woods, down streams, all over.”

As they neared the bunkhouse, they silenced themselves. Dim light emanated from several windows, but no sounds of revelry came from within. Only the faint swish of cloth and slapping leather-encased weapons announced their passage.

Dylan exhaled when they fully passed it.

A huge figure in black stepped from a shadowy alley on their right. “Look what we have here.” He drew a massive sword. “I hoped you’d fall asleep and start using magic again. Instead, you try to escape.” The guardsman sneered. “You’re going to regret your choice, boy, and your friends, too.”

Use magic again? Huh? But Xan was innocent?

Brant gripped the hilt of his sword, flexing his fingers.

No. They couldn’t fight. It would be too loud. Dylan inched his hand toward his backpack. His eyes darted to the garrison. How could they possibly get away?

The guy in front of them dwarfed even Brant, and a shout would bring all the reinforcements he could need. If they ran, they had little hope of fleeing a dozen guardsmen on horses.

“Excuse me, sir.” Xan spoke with a deepened voice. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. Perhaps my brother, Xan, who is being held in the jail?”

“Brother?”

“Yes, sir. My twin.”

The guardsman’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember any other boys in the house when we arrested him.”

“I’m apprenticed to the millwright,” Xan said. “I live with him.”

The guardsman pointed to the middle of the street. “Step into the light.”

Xan dragged his feet, stalling, to where he’d been commanded. The guardsman turned his back as he followed, but they couldn’t count on him facing away from them for long.

Dylan had to act fast. A screw up and they were all dead. And it’d be all his fault. He fumbled for the blowgun and loaded it with shaky hands.

The man maneuvered between Xan and the light and grabbed his face. “You are the boy! I gave you this bruise.”

Dylan exhaled sharply through the tube. The guardsman sank to his knees before collapsing to the ground. His forehead bounced with a sickening thump on the dirt road. His clattering weapons sounded like thunder.

The three stood silently for several moments, listening intently while staring at the barracks. Dylan’s heart rattled his ribcage, and his mind whirled with worry.

Nothing moved.

Finally, Brant said, “I don’t think anyone heard.”

Wordlessly, they dragged the guardsman into the alley.

“We should carry him to the stable and bury him in a manure pile,” Xan said.

Dylan fingered his weapon. Should he stow it or shoot Xan with it? “He was lying, right?”

Xan didn’t respond. Didn’t even acknowledge the question.

“He said something about you using magic. He lied, right?” Dylan waited expectantly, but Xan just stared at the unconscious guardsman.

“There’s no time for chatting,” Brant said. “We need to be far away by sunrise.”

Xan still didn’t respond, and Dylan opened his mouth. A fierce glower from Brant cut him off, and he slipped the blowgun into his pack.